


alone together

by cumulo_nimbus



Category: Greek and Roman Mythology, The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Bath Sex, Brief Voyerism, Explicit Consent, First Time, M/M, Meet-Fuck, Semi-Public Sex, achilles is a dumb disaster bisexual but he's got his eyes on the prize yknow, achilles isn't entirely human sorry argue with Homer about it, just some downright silly dumb boys in budding love, y'all just didn't have your freak On in the Achilles/Patroclus tag so here I am
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-01
Updated: 2018-08-01
Packaged: 2019-06-09 08:06:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15263073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cumulo_nimbus/pseuds/cumulo_nimbus
Summary: The sight of Prince Achilles is a rare one, even for the people technically in his possession. A rarer sight, Patroclus imagines, is a naked Achilles draped over the lip of a bath.





	alone together

**Author's Note:**

> I spent a long time debating the characterisation of Achilles and Patroclus (I am aware that this is just porn please don't bully me about it), and ultimately decided to include/emphasise various things in their personalities from different sources. for instance, I've placed significance on Patroclus' older age and his (assumed + heavily debated) role as the 'educator' in his and Achilles' relationship, and this is also the reason for the 'Underage' warning, as Patroclus is older than Achilles. by how much, I have no idea, as I haven't researched enough to know if there is even a definitive answer.
> 
> this is a vast change from my usual bullshit, so don't get used to me spending more than 0.3 seconds thinking about anything ever

Patroclus isn’t privy to why Prince Achilles must be summoned at this late hour; knows only that he was plucked from his early night’s sleep to personally escort the prince back from the baths. He can speculate, though. Prince Achilles – as distinguished as he is among the Greeks for his artistry with a weapon already – retains his juvenile truancy and he’s still known for regularly abandoning counsels with his father and elders.

The royal baths are far from the central lodgings, and on nights like these he can feel the air heavy with steam on his face long before reaching the building. The weather is mellow in Peleus’ region, warm enough for night festivities, and close enough for a dip in the ocean when the heat turns to sweat. It’s mostly a pleasant night for rest, Patroclus thinks.

The air inside the building is close to a fog, heavy with mist and carrying the scents of sweet perfumes. The last servants on duty for the night are milling about the open chamber, preparing the baths for the next day, but they still notice his entrance. An older girl organises them, and she approaches him. “I’m looking for Prince Achilles,” Patroclus says as she approaches, recognising the same hurry to conclude for the night. She nods and gestures for him to follow her as she turns to walk away.

“He only arrived a short time ago, so you might have to wait for him. He doesn’t often compromise on his bathing time,” she says as they walk out of earshot of the other servants. They head down one of the corridors that split from the main “We’ll be finished with preparations soon, but if you need someone to stay . . .” she trails off, glancing up at him.

Patroclus shakes his head. “Thank you, but I don’t want to keep anyone. I’d like to finish duty as soon as I can, personally,” he says, and she chuckles. The walk to the end of the hall is only long enough to grant them that, and she turns to him.

“The entry room is through here,” she says with a sympathetic smile, and Patroclus nods her off. She scurries back down to the lambent main quarters, lit with the hazy halos of candles and torches scattered about. Once her shadow disappears around the corner, Patroclus pushes the door open.

The light and noise from inside quickly overflow into the dim corridor, and he hurries inside to close the door behind himself. The room is only small, lit with the sound of water rushing emanating throughout the space. Opposite him is the door leading to the bath, cracked open a fraction, and the sound of water rushing echoes out of the bathing room, and Patroclus walks forward to knock on the wall beside it.

The surging water blankets the noise from being heard clearly from the corridor and even the entry room, but now, closer, he can hear the whines spilling from inside. He sees Prince Achilles, bent over the lip of an unnecessarily vast raised bathtub on his stomach, one hand underneath him, and the other fingering himself. It’s clumsy like he’s never had anyone to show him how, and Patroclus is struck with need.

Prince Achilles is sequestered by Peleus and the elders; rarely seen outside of meals and formal events, but Patroclus knows how beautiful he is even from those scarce glimpses. His divinity is palpable when he competes in the athletic games, and it’s similarly tangible here; his body neither awkward nor strained as he lies splayed. His hair falls over his shoulder, messy ringlets curling in the steam, but the lustre of gold in the strands are still as vivid as the shine of his breastplate abandoned in the entry room. His expression is at a comparable impasse, human in its desperation, but divine in its allure with his dewy lips parted and eyes lidded. He groans again, though it trails into frustration and his head lolls to rest on his arm.

Patroclus has to force himself to breathe in and out, insides tied into knots as he goes lightheaded. It’s immoral, watching Prince Achilles like this, and he moves to step away from the gap in the door in his daze. Though Prince Achilles is facing away from him, Patroclus can see it when his eyes open fully, and then his head turns faster than Patroclus can think to move.  Achilles is no longer relaxed, luxuriating in his own pleasure, but rises like a snake to fix that sharp animalistic focus that Patroclus has only heard of on him. His gaze is so intense that Patroclus forgets to look away for those first seconds out of pure fear.

Patroclus bows his head, nearly falls to the floor with the terror gripping his throat shut. “And who are you?” Comes from the room, partially covered by the sound of running water, but it’s indisputably the voice of Prince Achilles, light and noble with a telling rasp.

“Prince Achilles. Your, your father and, and the elders. They – they wish to speak with you currently,” Patroclus says, knows the satisfied grin Achilles would be wearing watching him fumble. His eyes are cast down, but he can see the shape of Prince Achilles, smaller now as he’s sunken further into the water, though no less imposing and it feels in no way a retreat. Prince Achilles’ is aware of his own beauty, and Patroclus thinks briefly that hiding it is only another reminder that mortals are not worth viewing the divine.

Prince Achilles chortles. “They will just have to wait,” he says, and it sounds so practised Patroclus is certain he must get away with shirking his duties regularly. Patroclus stands stock still until he sighs. “You haven’t answered,” he continues, waiting.

His brain still swirls with the image of Achilles and he chokes out, “Patroclus. My name is Patroclus,”

Prince Achilles makes a thoughtful noise. “You’re one of the boys in my father’s army, aren’t you?” He asks, and Patroclus gives an aborted nod. “Well, come here then,” he says like he’s bestowing an honour.

Patroclus gives pause, unsure. “I will retrieve your clothes, Prince Achilles,” he says, but Achilles tuts and he looks up in a moment of confusion before remembering himself. Achilles is faced towards him now, arms over the sides of the bath as he waits. Patroclus opens the door a fraction wider to allow himself in, slipping through the narrow gap, and doesn’t move further.

“Here,” Prince Achilles orders and Patroclus can see just well enough in his periphery that Achilles is gesturing to the ground beside himself. Patroclus walks forward and tries not to think about how Prince Achilles could kill him without fault nor effort. He stops a metre short of the bath, looking at the ceiling over the Prince’s head, and Achilles reaches for Patroclus with a thin arm and pulls him in. “Patroclus –” Pa-tro-clus, “– look at me.” It’s more dangerous than anything Patroclus has ever done, and he looks down.

Prince Achilles is younger than him and his body is more defined than Patroclus knows a teenager’s body has any right being. His skin is clear of scars, birthmarks, and freckles – Goddess Thetis’ caution and genetics, rather than his divinity, Patroclus thinks. He can see Prince Achilles’ face this time, facial bones delicate and feminine, only accentuated by the hair twisted over his shoulder. His gaze drifts and his eyes can’t help but catch on Achilles’ cock though, still hard beneath him, just barely out of the water and glistening from when Achilles sat up to speak to him. It’s impossible to look away, and he feels the shame of his mouth watering. “I meant my face, or perhaps my stunning physique, but this is alright too,” Achilles says, and leans more on one arm so Patroclus can see further down his body.

Patroclus clenches his eyes shut immediately, “I’m sorry – my humblest apologizes –” he begins, but is silenced by a dainty finger against his lips.

“If I wanted you dead, you would be already,” he says, only soft, but it’s warning enough, and Patroclus opens his eyes again. Achilles’ bored expression returns to mischievous, and he rests his other hand on Patroclus’ shoulder, pulling him so they’re chest-to-chest. “Now, Patroclus,” he starts, “Service your Prince, wouldn’t you?”

He picks up the oil from where Achilles had left it on the rim of the tub and spills it over his fingers before his own judgement can stop him. Achilles lies against Patroclus’ chest, lithe back sloping downwards, and Patroclus’ hands skim over his form until they rest one on each ass cheek. “You’ve never done this before, have you?” Patroclus asks, despite knowing the answer from the way Achilles had been so desperately confused trying to finger himself earlier. His proud prince only shakes his head, breath puffing hot against Patroclus’ neck, grumbling when Patroclus doesn’t set into action. He fondles Achilles’ ass cheek with one hand, and the other goes to his hole, already wet from Achilles’ own attempts. He knows that Achilles is bound to be sensitive, but he jolts whenever Patroclus so much as brushes the pads of his fingers over his hole. “Try to relax,” he advises and pushes a finger slowly into him. He hushes Achilles’s whining until he loosens around him, and Achilles melts against him.

“More, come on,” Achilles groans, still the impatient prince as a servant boy fingers him open. Patroclus hums and pushes a second finger in, and Achilles is so hot and pliable as Patroclus stretches him. He’s going lightheaded again, too much blood going to his own cock, unbearably hard in his pants with the visage of Achilles’ body stretched out before him.

Achilles is docile in his inexperience as Patroclus works him open, moaning when he strokes over somewhere particularly sensitive. Achilles’ body is easy to read below him, and Patroclus finds his prostate with practised fingers. He’s able to reach those precious inches further than Achilles was able to, and press all the harder against Achilles’ walls until he’s shaking against his chest, moaning in a constant stream.

Achilles takes to the submissive role with surprising ease, but he doesn’t remain immobile for much longer once he’s accustomed to Patroclus’ fingers comfortably inside of him. He pushes himself up and off Patroclus, leaning on the rim of the tub, and his hands glide down from Patroclus’ shoulders to his hips, and then he’s undoing Patroclus’ pants with an intensity in his eyes.

“Prince Achilles?” He asks in a low murmur, too distracted with Achilles’ form to construct anything better.

Achilles laughs shakily; he’s able to move now, though he’s still much too new to the sensations for it to come without thinking. “I meant that as a joke – don’t actually call me prince," he says, just barely finishing before his voice pinches into a drawn-out keen as Patroclus’ continues fingering him. His hands, however, don’t stop even as he pitches forward to rest his head against Patroclus’ shoulder again. “I want . . .” he trails off, fumbling with the ties of his pants, unfamiliar once more, but his deft fingers manage the knots after a few seconds. He pauses there, however, with the same inexperience from earlier and looks up at Patroclus. His eyes are charcoal-black, though it’s difficult to notice past his dilated pupils and the water gathered on his long eyelashes.

Patroclus knows how these things work – has experience of his own, but it still rocks him to his very (horny) core that Achilles is looking at him with that eager expression, just waiting to be shown. His fingers falter from where they’re stroking across Achilles and then stop, disregarding Achilles’ whines, and his other hand comes to meet the two already at his waist. He pushes the waistband down just far enough to grasp at his own cock and the contact nearly sends him blind with how much he’d been neglecting himself. He strokes himself a few times just to take the edge off, trying to ensure that he doesn’t burst as soon as Achilles lays those delicate fingers on him.

Then he looks back up at Achilles and the work is nearly for nought; those endless eyes are fixed on him, and Patroclus burns all the hotter. Achilles’ hands sit at the rim of the bath, but Patroclus can see his desire – knows Achilles is about to reach for his own dick, and he quickly scoops his hands up. He can’t deny the opportunity to prolong their tryst, and he leads one of Achilles’ hands towards himself, watching Achilles’ profile for any hesitance. Achilles is anything but, and when Patroclus releases his hand, still at a distance, Achilles closes the gap before a second can pass.

His hand wraps awkwardly around Patroclus’ cock, and the softness of Achilles’ skin shocks him stationary before he remembers himself and encloses Achilles’ hand in his own. Patroclus corrects the angle of Achilles’ thin wrist and guides him for a few strokes before Achilles shakes him off, grinning up at him in gratuitous satisfaction. Patroclus can’t predict the laugh that leaves him unbidden, and he tries to hide it by turning away as he searches for the oil again. The lid is just loose enough that he can open it with one hand, and he pours it over himself and Achilles’ hand, groaning when Achilles immediately increases his pace.

“I’m going to cum if you continue,” he pants, mouth suddenly dry with the heat of the room and Achilles’ slick hand around him. Achilles hums a brief laugh against his chest, and Patroclus can’t help but be a little mean himself, one hand resuming fingering Achilles, and the other skirting down Achilles’ body to hold him steady at his hip. The cheer of the hum falls into a low satisfaction, and Patroclus can tell already that his hold won’t last long.

Achilles rocks back minutely on his knees, barely enough to get Patroclus’ fingers an inch deeper, but it’s the added pressure that pulls his mouth open into a groan. His lips catch, wet and then tacky, against Patroclus’ pectoral and Patroclus uses his free hand to gentle Achilles into unfurling from against him. He looks up at Patroclus, gaze returning once, then twice, then a third time back to Patroclus’ lips like a challenge. Patroclus knows he could never hope at victory when fighting Achilles in battle, but this he can claim triumph in.

Achilles’ mouth falls against his and it’s barbarous, like innocence, like the wars they’ve only heard of, like Achilles has never known love and Patroclus has never known stability. It’s the fervour with which Achilles kisses him that jars Patroclus – this is Prince Achilles. Prince Achilles, swift-footed and like to the Gods, son of Thetis, sea-goddess. Royal, divine Achilles who he’s fingering and who is inexpertly stroking his cock.

But Achilles is the one to pull away from him. “What? Did I do something wrong?” He asks, expression as close to genuine concern as Patroclus has seen. It’s another reminder of his godhood – that sixth sense. His hand slows, and likewise he stills in Patroclus’ hold, looking up at him curiously, eyes both soft and unforgiving.

“No – no,” Patroclus says, words already out of his mouth before he thinks about it. “You’re . . . are you sure this is okay? You’re the son of a Goddess and I’m an exile,” he says, and Achilles’ expression retreats to that imperial stare. “I don’t want you to do anything you’d be ashamed of, or regret, or just – just look back on and wish you didn’t,” he continues, “and I obviously want to be here, but – do you? With me?”

Achilles’ head falls back onto his shoulder, a facsimile of their previous embrace, and Patroclus is bracing for the worst when Achilles laughs against him. “Of course – of course I want to be here with you. Why else – Gods, Patroclus, I would’ve killed any other man who walked through that door,” he says, finally, looking back up, and the abyss of his eyes seem a little less endless, a little less perilous, and Patroclus is suddenly hit with the feeling, once again, that he is much out of his depth.

“I –” Patroclus starts, before cutting himself off. “That’s for another time. What I want is you, cumming now.”

Achilles snorts a little laugh and leans back in at last. He’s just short of reaching Patroclus’ lips from where he’s kneeling, and there’s a fleeting second where Patroclus could really prevent this from going any further, stop Achilles before they become too entangled in each other even as they indulge the flesh.

Of course, he doesn’t deny Achilles it. He doesn’t think he could deny Achilles anything.

Achilles’ hand starts again, gripping him just right and picking up shamefully quickly on how much Patroclus likes that twist of his wrist. Patroclus likes to think he gets as good as he takes, tracking when Achilles groans and moans against him until he’s back to moving against Patroclus’ fingers shamelessly. It’s wet and suffocating, open mouths panting against each other in the heat of the room, but neither pull away. They take it slowly together, Patroclus guiding Achilles with him as the tension and pleasure build.

Achilles licks into his mouth and thumbs at the head of Patroclus’ dick in tandem and Patroclus very nearly blacks out with the sensation as he groans, opening his eyes just to be sure he’s still alive. And there are Achilles’ own eyes, low lidded, watching him with mirth before drifting closed again. Patroclus submits to his teasing, returning the kiss with the same vigour, releasing Achilles’ hip to pull him closer, pressing them chest-to-chest until he can grasp both their cocks together, hand overlapping Achilles. He pulls Achilles’ hand with his over their cocks, sensation both familiar and foreign with the uncertainty of who’s touching who.

There’s a gasp half-caught against his lower lip, then cheek, as Achilles rocks forward into their hands. His eyelashes are dewy and clumped together, from the water vapour or pleasure Patroclus doesn’t know. He pants, “Pa – Patroclus,” into the open air before Patroclus leans to kiss him again, unable to abstain.

Achilles’ hand grows clumsy as he gets closer to orgasm, groans halting and stuttering. Patroclus wouldn’t rather do anything else, he thinks, watching as Achilles shudders bodily against him as he pushes his fingers that bit harder against his prostate and jerks them both off. He’s letting out continual groans now, despite his attempts to keep quiet, but he has such limited higher-order functions that all he can think about is getting Achilles off and then himself.

There’s only a scarce moment of warning as Achilles’ head turns in to his neck and he bites down on the muscle there, groaning as he cums in Patroclus’ grip. Patroclus gentles his pace along their cocks as Achilles comes down, looking down to see the pearlescent cum splattered up his shirt and pants. There’s a second where he debates over whether worrying about the demi-god cum all over his clothes or cumming himself is more important. Achilles decides for him, stretching up onto his toes to kiss him, and his hand resumes at long last over Patroclus’ dick, other hand pulling Patroclus’ hand away to twine their fingers together.

Patroclus doesn’t last much longer after waiting so long, spilling over Achilles’ fingers with a groan. He opens his eyes a moment later to Achilles, now just a fraction further away, licking the cum from his fingers. Patroclus’ face twists, labouring slowly from post-orgasm bliss, into shock, and then horror, before his hand shoots out to grab Achilles’.

Achilles darts like water out of his grip and steps back further from the rim of the bath, just out of reach. “Better catch me,” he says, grinning like that spoiled prince Patroclus knows, and Patroclus is reaching for the fastenings of his shirt before he can think, laughing as he drops his clothing on the water-soaked floor beneath them.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> look I don't fucking know what they used as lube or if they had fucking invented bathtubs back in ye olde ancient greece guys. I don't know anything except that approx. 90% of this piece is probably anachronistic (except for the homosexuals) 
> 
> anyway if you think that Achilles and Patroclus get off without holding hands you're a fucking idiot and the feds are coming for you


End file.
